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Behind a Watteau 
Picture 

A Fantasy in Verse, in One Act 



By 
ROBERT EMMONS ROGERS 



All rights to Behind a Watteau Picture are reserved, 
and performances, whether professional or amateur, may 
be given only on payment of royalty. The professional 
rights, including little theatres and drama societies which 
give a season of plays, are in the hands of Frank Conroy, 
director ; of the Greenwich Village Theatre, Sheridan 
Square, New York City, to whom application should be 
made. Applications for amateur production by schools, 
clubs or societies, should be made to Professor Robert E. 
Rogers, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Cambridge, 
Mass. The royalty for amateur production is ten dollars 
for each performance. 



BOSTON 

WALTER H. BAKER & CO. 
191S 



^'^'^ 9/v 



.3 ^^\ 




Copyright, 1918, by Robert Emmons Rogers 
as author and proprietor 

All rights reserved 



AUG -! 1918 ■ 



©Ci.O 5008^ 



^ 



To My Wife 
MARIE BAER ROGERS 



Behind a Watteau Picture 



CHARACTERS 

A Museum Guide. 

A Watteau Marquise. 
A Watteau Marquis. 
A Watteau Poet. 

The Melancholy Pierrot. 
Harlequin. 
Columbine. 
A Fat Pierrot. 

Four Chinese Lantern Bearers. 
Two Negro Grave-Diggers. 
Two Lutanists. 



[vii] 



Notes for Amateur Producers 

Behind a Watteau Picture was first given by amateurs 
of The Artists' Guild of St. Louis under the direction of 
David Carb, in November, 1916. 

The first professional production was by Frank Conroy, 
at the Greenwich Village Theatre, New York City, in 
November, 1917. The fantasy was on the opening bill 
of the theatre and ran for seven weeks, with scenery by 
Hewlett and Basing and special music by W. Franke 
Harling. 

Although the New York production was elaborate, the 
success of the first attempt at St. Louis proved con- 
clusively that the piece can be given by amateurs on a 
restricted stage. A few suggestions may be helpful. 

The same setting, gateway and sky, may be used for 
both scenes. The first scene is set far forward and en- 
closed in a large gilt frame. On the lowering of the 
lights at the end of Scene i, the picture frame disappears 
and the gateway with its sky drop is moved to the back 
of the stage where, with the smaller set scenery and 
properties, it does for the rest of the play. The play 
closes on Pierrot's song without the change back to the 
picture indicated in the text. 

Scenery and costumes need not be expensive but 
should approximate in color and shade the pastel twilight 
tones of a Watteau picture. The Watteau characters 
should wear the costumes of his pictures ; the Pierrot 
group, their traditional clothes ; Chinese and Negroes 
should be brilliant and bizarre in the new manner. 
[ix] 



Both productions have used an intermittent musical 
obligate. Mr. Harling's music, written for a string 
quartette, may be procured on appUcation to Mr. Conroy. 
Societies making a less elaborate production will doubt- 
less prefer the device used in St. Louis, a thoroughly 
competent pianist improvising according to the action. 
Characteristic themes for character and action, taken 
from well-known composers of repute, may be worked 
out during rehearsal. The verses for the duel-minuet 
were written to the music of Jupiter's Minuet in the last 
scene of Offenbach's Orpheus Aux Enfers. 

The spirit of the play should be that of poetic fantasy 
rather than melodrama. Players should be chosen for 
their grace and ease and particularly for their abihty to 
speak rhymed verse skillfully. Care should be taken 
not to strive for •' naturalness " at the expense of cadence 
and rhyme. Beauty of diction, of grouping, of color and 
lighting . . . these are the essentials. 

R. E. R. 



[X] 



{^Bill of the original professional performance) 

The Greenwich Village Theatre 

Fourth Street and Seventh Avenue, New York 
BILL OF THE PLA YS 

BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

A Fantasy in Two Scenes by Robert E. Rogers, with 
Incidental Music by W. Franke Harling 

A Guide Mr. Eugene Ward 

A Watteau Marquise - Miss Margaret Fareleigh 

A Watteau Marquis - - - - Mr. Meltzer 
A Watteau Poet - - - - Mr. Everett Glass 
A Fat Pierrot - - - - Mr. Strawbridge 

Harlequin Mr. Macaulay 

First Lantern Bearer - - Mr. Remo Bufatw 
Second Lantern Bearer - - Mr. McDonald 
Third Lantern Bearer - Mr. David Pennington 
Fourth Lantern Bearer - Mr. Leojiard Brooke 
First Grave Digger - - - - Mr. Lapham 
Second Grave Digger - - Mr. George Weston 

Columbine Miss Fania Marinoff 

A Melancholy Pierrot - - Mr, Sydney Carlyle 

The piece has been staged by Mr. Conroy. The settings 
have been designed by Messrs. Hewlett and Basing, and 
executed at the Hewlett-Basing Studios. The costumes 
have been designed by Mr. Robert E. Locher. 

THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 

A Cofnedy in One Act by Arthur Schiitzler 
Translated by Charles Henry Meltzer 

"The Festival of Bacchus" has been staged under the 
direction of Mr. Roland Young. The setting is by Messrs. 
Hewlett and Basing. 

EFFICIENCY 

A Play in One Act by Robert H. Davis and 

Perley Poore Sheehan 

« Efficiency " has been staged by Mr. Conroy. The setting 

has been designed by Mr. John Wenger and executed by 

Messrs. Hewlett and Basing. 



PLEASE NOTICE 

The professional stage-rights in this play are strictly reserved 
by the author. Applications for its use should be addressed 
to Frank Coxroy, Greenwich Village Theatre, Sheridan 
Square, New York City. 



Attention is called to the penalties provided by the Copyright 
Law of the United States of America in force July I, 1909, for 
any infringement of his rights, as follows : 

Shc. 28. That any person who wilfully and for profit shall infringe any 
Copyright secured by this Act, or who shall knowingly and wilfully aid 
or abet such infringement, shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, and 
upon conviction thereof shall be punished by imprisonment for not ex- 
ceeding one year or by a fine of not less than one hundred dollars, or both, 
at the discretion of the court, 

Shc. 29. That any person who, with fraudulent intent, shall insert or 
impress any notice of Copyright required by this Act, or words of the 
same purport, in or upon any uncopyrighted article, or with fraudulent in- 
tent shall remove or alter the copyright notice upon any article duly copy- 
righted shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, punishable by a fine of not less 
than one hundred dollars and not more than one thousand dollars. 



Behind a Watteau Picture 

SCENE I 

A shallow front scene with back drop, the whole 
set in a great gilt picture frame, as if it were 
a painting. Four figures, the Watteau people, 
are posed before a rather high wall, in the 
center of which is a great, double, gilt-grilled 
gate, of fantastic pattern. At right and left, 
on this side of the wall, two tall, slim, black 
cypresses. Over the wall, to the left center, 
the upper branches of a peach tree. The 
wall is gray and mossy. Above, an emerald- 
green sky . . . all very flat and unreal, 
as if painted. The figures are posed stiff 
and still. They are all in the loose silk frills 
and ruffles of Watteau's paintings. The 
Marquise sits on a little folded stool, right 
center, lax, head in hand. The Marquis, 
half kneeling, to her right, is kissing her 
hand. At the other side the Poet, lounging 

in 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

at her feet, fingering a guitar. At far right 
a little turhaned negro with lap dog. The 
whole effect shoidd he that of one of those 
languid arrangements of Watteau's. 
From the left comes a typical Museum Guide in 
gray imiform, with a pointer. He repeats 
in a rapid, professional monotone: 

Guide. 

The next picture in the collection, 
Ladies and gentlemen, 
Is one of the masterpieces 
Of the French School of the Bood-war 
Entitled 

" La Markeese Ong-wee-ay "... 
In English, " The Bored Markeese." 
Painted in 1709 
By Jhong Ant-wong Watto. 
At the express command of 
Madame de Montespan 
Mistress of Looey Katorze, 
For the Palace of Versales. 
Please note the chiaroscuro, 
The mastery of color and 
The fineness of the brush-work. . . , 
[2] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Also, the bored expression on the lady's face. 

Considered very fine 

By the late John Ruskin. 

It is worth $75,000 

And is a companion piece to 

" The Lovesick Peer-ro " 

In the Loover, Paris, France. 

He moves toward the right. 

The next picture in the collection . . . 

Exit. The music rises high and shrill 
in derision, drowning his voice. 
Around the edge of the picture, to 
the left, creeps Harlequin, spangled 
and black visored. He passes in 
front of picture, laughs, waves his 
hat at it thrice, then follows Guide 
out, leaping mockingly. At once 
the figures in the painting begin to 
move, and the orchestra takes up 
the tune to which the Poet is sing- 
ing. 

Poet. 
There is a garden where 
Love lies beneath the moon, 

[3] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Golden and rose and fair, 
Love ... in a swoon. 
Lads full of hardihood, 
Flee when you hear her call. 
Love bringeth nought of good 
Over Death's wall. 

The Poet lays down his guitar. 

Lady. 
" Love bringeth nought of good 
Over Death's wall." 
How very fine that is . . . how true ? 

Poet. 
'Twas but a song I made for you, 
Tender as twilight, sweet as your grace. . . . 
Lady, to look upon your face 
Were more than song or poetry. 

Marquis. 
To kiss your hand were song enough for me. 

Lady. 
I am so weary of these days 
And these long nights. . . * 
Have you no antic plays, 
No maskings or delights 

[4] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

To make me laugh again? 

No human tongue or pen 

Can tell how all the whole wide world 

Wearies me . . . wearies me! 

Poet. 

I have another song to sing, 
Ballade of Ladies Loved and Dead, 
Sweet rhymes unto sweet music wed. 

Lady. 
I pray you, do not sing. 

Marquis. 

Or shall we improvise a play 

A merry garden comedy? 

You shall be soubrette, Lady ... we 

Clowns, and make mummery. 

Lady. 

Ah, no ... no songs nor plays shall ever 

woo me, 
For I am weary of all common play. . . , 
Have you no novelties to offer to me, 
Who hate the sight of day? 
[5] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Have you no heart to go adventuring, 
Under the stars to go 
Seeking the other-worldly magic thing 
Few men may know? 

Poet. 
Lady, lead on . . . and we will run 
Over the hills of yesterday 
On to the mountains of the moon, 
The valleys of the sun. 

Land where midnight reigns at noon. . . . 
Tally-ho . . . lead away, lead away ! 

Lady. 
Slowly. 
There is no magic far away 
Stronger than magic now and here. 
This ancient wall might hide the kingdoms of 

Cathay, 
This quaint and crooked gate 
That creaks so near 

Might bar us out of fairylands that wait 
Adventurers whose hearts are gay 
And debonair. 

The Poet goes and peers in, shaking his head. 
[6] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Poet 
Alas, no, Lady, nought within, 
Save an old garden, old and thin, 
Ungathered roses. 
Poplars dying, 

A stagnant pool in star-shine lying . . , 
There are all that the gate encloses. 

The Marquis is obviously impatient. 

Marquis. 
Come away. Lady. . . . We can sing and 

feast . . . 
Dance, if you will. 
Or play at cards at least. 
The evening is young still. 

Poet. 

Not heeding. 

Who knows, Marquise, but you are right ? 
That here beyond this wall . . . 
Hidden from sight 

But quick to answer should we call . . * 
Lie all romance and magic, life and death. 
Adventure. . . . In a breath. 
All you desire, who are sick of all, 
Say . . . shall I call? 
[7] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

She makes an eager gesture of assent. The 
Poet looks in. 
Sleeping garden . . . arise, look out ! 
Wake in the star-shine, wake and stir . . . 
There are adventurers hereabout. 
Wake . . . O wake . , . for a sight of 

Her! 
(Hark! did you hear the fountain stir?) 
Night-blooms, open ! Nightingale, sing ! 
(Was that the poplar whispering?) 
Sleepy folk, drowsy folk, couched within, 
Open the gate ... we would come in ! 

Pause. Then a sudden scurry of 
guitar music, as if wind-borne. As 
the four look at each other, sud- 
denly at the gate appears a Colum- 
bine, a slim and lovely child all rose 
and gold, pressed against the bars, 
stretching her arms through in en- 
treaty. To her comes the visored 
Harlequin . . . tears her from 
the gate and drags her out of sight. 
The guitars sound more loudly, then 
die away. 

[8] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Poet. 
Eagerly,- 

Here is Romance for us, Lady. What ho ! 

Open . . . open, and let us in. 

Although the Marquis tries to dis- 
suade her, the Lady goes to the 
gate and pulls the bell-chain which 
sounds inside, cracked and jangling. 
At sound of hell, enter from right — 
not inside the wall hut outside — a 
very fat Pierrot, all in white, with 
hig green umhrella and a market 
basket on his arm. He lumbers in 
with a queer, dancing gait, regard- 
less of the four who draw back and 
gaze in astonishment at him; puts 
a big key in the gate, and swings it 
open. Dusk within. As he is about 
to go in, the Marquise speaks to 
him and he whirls about like a 
frightened rabbit. 

Lady. 
Pray, ere you close it. 
May we go in for a moment . . . and look? 

[9] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Fat Pierrot. 
'Tis not my garden. I am the cook. 

Lady. 
Just one look, then, if nobody knows it. 

Fat Pierrot. 
You will not like it there. 
Inside 'tis not a pretty place. 
Only a garden, all deserted . . . bare . . . 
Neglected for a long, long space. 
I'm not the master . . . I'm the cook. 
I dare not let you venture in. 

Marquis.] 
Practically. 

But here is gold 

To sweeten your sin. 

Let us but look. 

Do as you're told. 

Only a glimpse, cook . . . 

Look at him grin ! 

Fat Pierrot. 
In great perturbation. 
Tisn't my garden. It is very queer. 
Strange people wander here. . . * 

[lO] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Even in moonlight it is sad and old. 
Strange people dwell within. . . * 

Marquis. 
Let us but look. 

Lady. 
Do as you're told. 

Poet. 
Only a glimpse, cook . . . 
Look at him grin ! 

Fat Pierrot. 
Well . . . just a moment then . . . but 

never say 
I didn't warn you . . v 
'Tis a deadly place ! 

Marquis. 
Melodramatically. 
Fat cook, we scorn you ! 

Lady.^ 
Did you see his face ? 

Poet. 
Lady, the gate stands wide. 
Dare you to lead the way ? 

Takes her hand. 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Lady. 
"Awed. 

This is a strange and magic gate 

We venture past 

Into this garden where Dusk holds her state. 

Hold fast my hand. Hold fast ! 

Creep softly, breathless with delight 

Like daring children. Come . . . 

Hold tight . . . hold tight ! 

The four creep in with exaggerated 
caution and are lost in the dusk. 
The Negro Boy looks in once, then 
picks up his guitar and lap-dog and 
runs off rapidly, right. The Cook 
Pierrot, with despairing waggling 
gestures, follows in fatly. 

SCENE II 

The wall fades in darkness. When it lifts we 
are inside the garden. The other side of the 
wall is at the hack, with the gate toward the 
left. One of the cypresses is seen over the 
wall in the right hand hack corner. The 
other is missing. At the right one goes up 
[12] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

some low broad steps to a terrace out of 
sight; at the foot the steps are flanked by 
gray, crumbling, moss-covered classic statues. 
At the left the garden-wall, out of sight, is 
masked by thick high rose-bushes in bloom. 
In front of them facing the terrace is a long 
low curving stone seat on a raised step of 
stone. Toward left center a peach tree 
trained against the wall makes against the 
flat green evening sky a delicate, not too 
thick, silhouette of twig and leaf, somehow 
formal and unreal. On the right above the 
wall the open sky is seen. Under this clear 
space a few steps, unobtrusive, go up the 
wall-side to its flat top. There is ivy on the 
wall. Rather luxuriant and neglected shrubs 
and flowers are about and a weather-worn 
statue or two of soft stone. To right and 
back of center, almost under the wall, is a 
half finished grave with earth thrown up 
about it. All is in a green dusk. There has 
been no pause in the music. As the light 
goes on the four file in through the gate, one 
after another, but hand in hand, at a quick- 
ening pace. The Lady, who is leading, 
[13] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

moves faster and faster and in a circle^ until 
she finally has them all in a sort of ring 
around a rosy. Just inside the gate the Fat 
Pierrot stands unquiet and peering off right 
with scared face. 

Lady. 
To-night we are children . . ^ 
Gayest of children, 
Dancing, dancing 
In an old Garden . . . 
Round and round and round ! 

The Men. 
Rapidly. 

Round and round and round and round, 

Ring around a rosy ! 

Suddenly the Lady breaks away and 

the dance stops abruptly, all staring 

at her. She looks about nervously. 

Poet. 
What is the matter ? Why are you pale ? 

Lady. 
This is no place to dance, my dears ! 
This is a strange, strange corner of the world, 
No place to dance. . . . 

[14] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Poet. 
There is a sudden wind from the gate, 
Blowing me cold. 

Lady. 
Cold . . . and afraid. 
Shut the gate, shut the gate, 
Then we will dance again. 
The Poet pushes the gate together violently. 

Fat Pierrot. 
Softly . . . softly . . . 
Lest the gate creak ! 

Marquis.:. 
Looking about idly. 
What a strange garden. 
Deserted and old. 

Poet. 
The world passes by and forgets it. 

Fat Pierrot. 
Your pardon ! 
But pray do not speak 
Over a whisper, or we are all lost ! 
[15] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Lady. 
Poor garden ! Where the wind seems always cold 
And age-old cypresses keep their watch. 
The walls are gray and green with mould. . . . 

Poet. 
The very roses droop as if with frost. . . . 
Brr ! I'm cold, too ! 

Marquis. 
And I ! 

Poet. 
It is a chill 

That creeps into the heart and makes it still. 

Lady. 
True ! So I feel it in my heart. 

Fat Pierrot. 
Now you have seen it . . . pray depart. 
Go quickly. Here it is not well. 

Marquis. 
What a strange stoiy might this tell ! 
This garden, made for moonshine and delight, 
For lutes and lovers ... on a summer 

night . . . 
Now left so empty and so spiritless. 
[i6] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Lady. 
It seems profane to come here in this dress, 
In these gay frills, this frou-frou of soft silk. 

Poet 
Inspired. 

This is a garden of the forgotten past . . . 

Shadows, shadows everywhere 

Of little ladies who were fair, 

Whose beauty might not last. 

Lady. 
Catching up the thought in the same pensive 
mood. 
Here, under moonshine . . . oh, so white . . . 
Their lovers wooed them tenderly. 
Begging them to requite 

Their hot young passions. Can you see ? . . . 
Here, there, beneath the wall, 
Beside the fountain and the pool 
Blown into spray by night winds cool. 
Can you not see their shadows pass and flee ? 
Can you not hear their false, light voices call ? 

Poet. 
Shade of each gallant boy and maid, 
Provoking girls and girls afraid . . • 

[17] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

And girls whose hot hearts risked their all 
For one night of such gallantry. 
This is a garden of dead happiness, 
Of vanished love and folly, where the moon 
Peers in o' nights . . . wistful . . . regret- 
ful. . . . Soon 
Veiling her face . . . to see the emptiness 
Of dead youth wooing to a dead flute's tune. 

Lady. 
Let us go back ! 

Marquis. 
It might be well to go. 

To Fat Pierrot. 
My man, who lives here ? I should like to know. 

Fat Pierrot. 
I'll tell you ... if you haste and leave. 

Poet. 
Tell me ! The place intrigues me so ! 

Fat Pierrot. 
Looking about fearfully. 
A strange, strange master! I believe 
He's called the Melancholy Pierrot, 
[18] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

With strange deep eyes and lips all worn and thin. 

He dwells alone. Here no one enters in, 

Save whom he bids . . . and he bids no one. 

Lady. 
It was a foolish thing to venture through 
That rusting gateway . . . even for a lark. 

Marquis. 
We are two men, Madame, to guard you. 

Poet. 
Suddenly. 

Hark! 

Did I hear music . . . like a lover's lute ? 

And are those torches, too? 

Fat Pierrot. 
Torches ! For God's sake, then, be mute ! 

Lady. 
Looking out tozvard the right as the others 
do. 
I thought it was the orange moon 
Rising strangely by the pond. 
Nay, it comes toward us . . . and beyond 
['9] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Another . . . and another still . . , 
Four moons all round and red, 
Lifting as if they climbed a little hill, 
And one bobs on ahead. 

Fat Pierrot. 

Too late, too late . . . you cannot flee . . , 
Hide . . . hide! . . . 

Poet. 
Why, I cannot see . . . 

Marquis. 

Haughtily. 
Gentlemen do not hide. 

Fat Pierrot. 

For her sake . . . for the Lady's sake ! 
Behind here, quick, crouch side by side. 
Speak not at what you see . . . 
You do not know what strangeness you may wake. 

Poet. 

The orange moons float by the silver pool . . . 
[20] 




Left to right: Edwin Strawbridge, Harold Meltzer, Margaret 

Fareleigh and Everett Glass of the Greenwich 

Village Theatre Company. 




Fania Marinoff. as Columbine, and Sidney Carlisle, as 
Melancholy Pierrot, in the final tableau at the 
(ireenwich Village Theatre. 



The 



BEHIND AWATTEAU PICTURE 

Marquis. 
I have my sword. 

Fat Pierrot. 
O, fool, fool, fool ! 

For your own sake, Lady, bid them run, 
Or we are all undone ! 

The Lady, really badly frightened, 
tries to pass it off and at the same 
time to get the men moving, with a 
pretense of sport. 
Lady. 
I know ... I know! 
'Tis like a children's game. 
Here I go 

Hidden behind the roses high . • » 
You do the same . . . 
Bend down low, 
Waiting until they call " I spy." 

They imitate her, laughing, and crouch 
behind the bushes, singing in an ex- 
aggeration of caution. 
Poet. 
Under the roses' shadow then, 
One fair lady, two brave men, 
^Waiting what danger comes anigh . * „ 
[21] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Marquis. 

Silent keep, 

Do not peep, 

Waiting until they call " I spy ! " 

The Fat Pierrot runs hastily to the 
gate, closes it, picks up basket and 
umbrella and stands visibly shak- 
ing. From the right, down the 
steps, comes iJie spangled, black- 
visor ed Harlequin, follozved by four 
Chinese In startling robes, each 
hearing on a tall bamboo stick a 
large round paper lantern of a deep 
blood-orange color. The Fat Pier- 
rot tries to creep past. 

Harlequin. 

His voice is deep and harsh. 
Halt ! 

You're late, my fat friend, very late. 
We waited till the hour was past, 
Yet no sign at the gate. 
Have you the shroud? 

The Fat Pierrot takes cover off the basket, 

mutely. 

[22] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

At last ! 

Go, bid the diggers come . . . and tell 

Dear little Columbine to prepare, 

To dress her for . . . what she knows well. 

And say that moonrise must behold her . . . here. 
The Fat Pierrot hurries out, right, like 
a scared jelly. In a moment, down 
the steps, come marching four 
tremendous Negroes, naked to the 
waist and swathed below in some 
gaudy cloth, a curved scimeter 
hanging from each one's broad sash, 
turbans on their heads, gold hoops 
in their ears, barefooted. They 
carry spades and mattocks. 

Harlequin. 

Dig . . . but not too deep. 

She who will sleep 

Is very little, very frail and slim. 

To dig so deep were grim 

Sardonic jest. 

Dig . . . while I summon him. 

Dig . . . without rest. 

[23] 



BEHIND AWATTEAU PICTURE 

He goes out with his lithe, stealthy 
and altogether sinister gait. The 
Negroes fall to digging, the Chinese 
standing about them, lighting their 
work. The four peep from behind 
the roses, full of disquiet. 

Lady. 
Softly. 
What dreadful thing is this? . . . 
These black and Oriental men . . . 
That spangled thing whose speech was like a hiss 
Of some gay, deadly snake ? 

Marquis. 
Bend close and wait . . . and then 
Watch well what grave they make, 
What vengeance they will take. 

They watch in silence. The Negroes 
dig. Presently the Chinese, zvatch- 
ing their swaying lanterns, begin to 
sing in strange, quavering. Oriental 
intervals. 

Chinese. 
We are the Bearers of the Lantern, 
We are the Bearers of the Moon, 
On our slender willow wands 
[24] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Poised aloft 

Float the moons . . . 

Orange, tawny, golden moons . . „ 

Like an apple stolen from Eden, 

Like a bubble . . . 

Like a bubble blown of sunset. 

Floating, floating . . . 

Like a tarnished Roman coin 

That bore once the head of Csesar , « . 

Like the children's Toy Balloon , . , 

We are the Bearers of the Moon. 

Lady. 
I am afraid! 

Marquis. 

Be silent. . . . Wait. 

And now the Negroes, swaying slowly 
at their digging, give labored and 
guttural answer. 

Negroes. 
Dig ... dig ... dig .. . 
This is not our moon that rises. 
Our moon pours through the trees of Congo, 
Black and gold . . . black and gold 
For the Voodoo sacrifice. 
Dig . . . dig. . . . 
[25] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Chinese. 
When there is no moon in heaven 
We are the Makers of Moons. 

First Chinese. 
This is the moon of the East 
Flat and carven and white. 

Second Chinese. 
This is the moon of the North 
Cold with the Northern night. 

Third Chinese. 
This is the moon of the golden South 
Rich and swollen with delight. 

Fourth Chinese. 
This is the moon of the West 
Where the wheat ripes under its ruddy light. 

All four Chinese. 
When there is no moon in heaven, 
These we fashion in her image. 
We are the Makers of Moons. 

Lady. 
I am afraid . . . afraid! 

[26] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Negroes, 
Ours is a moon of wailing, 
Wailing and blood . . . 
Ours is the moon of Voodoo, 
The red moon . . . 
The red moon of the black folk . . . 
Wailing and blood. 

Chinese. 
We are the Bearers of the Lantern, 
We are the Bearers of the Moon, 
Till she rise lotus-like and mellow. 
Till she rise . . . soon. 
These be the four moons of the garden, 
Moons that our own hands have made, 
Ours is a fairer moon than God's moon. 
Ours will not fade. 

Behind the roses the Poet replies in a hushed 
voice. 

Poet. 
These are the Bearers of the Lantern, 
These are the Bearers of the Moon, 
Hasten the true moon upon us. 
Hasten her . . . soon. 

[27] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Lady. 

These are the dead moons of the garden. 
Moons their unclean hands have made. 
Their moons are evil beside God's moon, 
I am afraid . . . afraid! 

The Chinese turn to the Negroes. 

Chinese. 
Is the grave made? 

Negroes. 
Not yet is the grave made. 

Chinese. 
Dig, then . . . v^e watch. 

A moment's pause. Then, from the 
right, down the steps, comes Colum- 
bine, running, — her pretty ballet 
dress rumpled, her hair once hound 
up with rosebuds falling on her 
shoidders. She nms to the locked 
gate and shakes the bars, showing 
despair. All her movements sug- 
gest the art of the ballerina. 

[28] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Coluiitbine. 
Sobbing. 
Open . . . open! 

Gates, iron gates, that will not ope * . * 
Moon, cruel moon, that soon must rise. 
Have you no pity for me here, who grope 
Against your bars ? And must your saffron eyes 
Behold me slain ? . . . 

The Fat Pierrot, greatly perturbed, 
runs on after her, and in panto- 
mime, always in pantomime here- 
after, tries to get her away from the 
gate and out. His gestures are ab- 
jectly comic and she pays no atten- 
tion to him. She turns from the 
gate and stands with her back 
against it, with outflung arms. 
Because my laughter in the sunny hours 
Awoke sweet echoes in this dying place . . . 
Because I strove with love against the powers 
Who fill this garden-close with death . . . 
Because my very face 
Was beautiful and young, 
So will they try to stop my singing breath 
And kill the songs I have not sung. 
[29] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

The Fat Pierrot makes another at- 
tempt, in vain. Seeing the Lady's 
head peeping around the rose-hedge, 
he waggles his hand despairingly at 
her, as if begging her to do some- 
thing. She calls to the girl, who 
has hidden her face on her arm. 

Lady. 
Columbine ! 

The Men. 
Softly. 

Columbine . . . Columbine! 

She turns in astonishment. The Lady's voice 

goes on. 

Lady. 
Here where the roses lift and twine, 
Here in shadowy rose-flowers hidden . , » 
Here we will hide you ... 

Columbine. 
Astonished. 

'Tis forbidden . . . 

Marquis. 
Here are swords to guard you well. 

Poet. 
Here are shadows that never tell. 
[30] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Lady. 
Columbine, Columbine, hide with us here. 
Waiting means danger. . . . Columbine, dear ! 
She is on the point of running behind 
the rose-hedge when the lutes sound 
loudly and very near, and Harlequin 
appears on the steps. Columbine 
throws out her hands despairingly, 
and falls with a moan on the bench 
in front of the roses — on her back — 
long slim legs lax, one hand flung 
over her face, as if she had fainted. 
Behind Harlequin as he descends the 
steps are four boys who might have 
stepped out of some early Italian 
painting — slender, blonde-curled, in 
sheath-tight hose and doublet of 
flame color, with impertinent little 
caps on the back of the head. They 
carry round-bellied lutes which they 
pluck zvithout ceasing, but with re- 
gard to what happens. Sometimes 
a faint accompaniment to speech 
and action, sometimes suddenly loud 
and arresting in a dead pause. 
[31] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Behind them comes slowly the Melan- 
choly Pierrot, a tall, thin, white- 
faced thing in the usual loose 
clothes of a Pierrot, hut fashioned 
of a deep purple crepe with blood- 
red rosettes on coat and shoes. 
His wide ruff is black; so is his 
skidl cap. His white-washed face 
is very drawn and lean, — with hol- 
low dark eyes and a sardonic slash 
of scarlet for a mouth. A tiny 
guitar is slung round his neck by a 
broad ribbon, — usually he carries it 
at his back so as not to be in the 
way. He is very absent and moody 
and languid. 

Harlequin. 
Master, behold, the grave is made. 
The lanterns wait, the lutanists are set, 
The girl is shrouded . . . 
All is ready here. 

Pierrot. 
Not hearing. 

The mist lies over pool and glade 

[32] 



BEHIND AWATTEAU PICTURE 

Like some veiled face I knew once . ,. . and 

forget . . . 
The sky should not be clouded . . s 

Suddenly. 
What do we here ? 

Harlequin. 
Master, you know. 

Pierrot. 

The sky is very clear. 
There is no moon. 

Harlequin. 
The moon is very late. 

Pierrot. 

Angrily. 

I bade you have a moon ! 

Harlequin. 
Soothingly. 
Soon . . . soon . . . but wait. 
Or . . . here are little moonlets at your hand. 

Pierrot. 
The stars are ready and the trees stand fast, 
The water in the fountain springs aghast, 
[33] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

The rose blooms will be faithful to the last. . . . 
Shall the moon make me wait . . . when / 

command ? 

Harlequin. 
Master, the inoon is slow to-night. 
He makes a sign to the Chinese to show their 
moons. 

Chinese. 
We are the Bearers of the Lantern, 
We are the Bearers of the Moon, 
Can one moon pour a larger light 
Than our red bubbles in the dark ? 

Pierrot. 
I bade the moon ! The moon is late . . . 
then hark ! 
In a rage he scatters the Chinese, faces the wall 
and sky and stands with arms outstretched. 
Lady of dark thought and of darker deed. 
Mistress of shadows and of cruel seas, 
Huntress among the timid Pleiades, 
Come ... in our need. 

Chijtese. 
White moon, golden moon, moon red as fire, 
Race across the seas to us. 
Give us our desire. 

[34] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Pierrot 
Mistress of this garden-close. 
To whose light the fountains leap, 
In the dark the roses sleep, 
Come . . . and wake the rose. 

Negroes. 

Red moon, golden moon, moon white as flame, 
Moon of Congo forests . , . come 
By thy dreadful name ! 

Pierrot. 

Pilgrim of a lonely way. 

To our garden swinging low, 

For a while delay the dreadful day, 

Come ... to Pierrot! 

At the words the moon appears over 
the garden wall, a deep ruddy gold 
in color, a man's height in diameter. 
It rises till it seems to poise on the 
top of the wall like a bubble, then 
stops and remains fixed till the end. 
Its left quarter shines through the 
delicate lace-work of the peach 
foliage. As it rises slowly the 
[35] 



BEHIND AWATTEAU PICTURE 

Chinese prostrate themselves and 
their little moons. 

Chinese. 

We are the Bearers of the Lantern, 
She is the true, the veiy moon. 
Like a golden bubble floating . . . float- 
ing .. . 
Go not too soon! 
Pause while Pierrot looks pensively at the moon, 

Pierrot. 

The moon is young and sweet to-night, 

Hung on the night's blue vine 

Like some great fruit of rose and gold, 

Young and sweet . . . rose and gold . . . 

Passionate . . . like Columbine. 

With a sudden start of remembrance. 
Columbine . . . where is Columbine? 
Bring her to me ! 

Ah, if the moon were gray and cold, 
Like a woman veiled and old, 
Ah, if the moon were wan and white . , . 
So might I spare her . . . for to-night. 
Bring her to me ! 

[36] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Harlequin. 
There she Hes. Let her come forth. 
She knows the way that she must go, 
Since she mocked at Pierrot, 
Fragile . . . Httle worth! 

Pierrot crosses to where Columbine 
lies lax on the bench, her face 
hidden, and bends aver her with 
yearning hands. 

Pierrot. 
Fragile . . . but oh, so sweet I 
How can I kill? . . . 
Columbine dear, 

See, it is moon rise . . . see, at your feet. 
Once more kneeling . . . Pierrot's licre ! 

Wildly. 
Strangle that white, young throat . . . and 

still 
Her song like a bird's at daybreak? 
Columbine, loveliest . . . wake! 

Harlequin, zvho has been watching 
angrily, crosses and lays his hand 
heavily on his master's shoulder. 
[37] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Harlequin. 

No, Pierrot. 

Have you forgotten? 

Rose and gold, sweet to the taste. 

Like a sweet apple, mellow . . . and rotten. 

Worms at the heart, decaying within, 

Sweet, . . . yes, sweet . . . sweet, as 

sin! 
Lovely to pluck . . . bitter to taste. 

Pierrot 

Sadly. 
Lovely to pluck . . . bitter to taste. 

Harlequin. 

No, Pierrot ! 

Have you forgotten? 

False to the heart. 

Wanton and light as a bird 

In its flight. 

Your mistress, my mistress, lover of any 

Lad whom she meets . . . 

Can she be lovely, allowing so many 

To taste of her sweets ? 

[38] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Pierrot. 
Dully. 

Allowing so many to taste of her sweets. 

But sweet . . . yes, sweet ? 

Harlequin. 
No, Pierrot ! 
Can you forget? 
How she deceives you. 
Fools you and leaves you 
Without a regret, 

Slips from your covers to kiss with new lovers, 
And she believes . . . 

She . . . can . . . fool . . . you yet ! 
Pierrot flings him off in a hurst of passion. 

Pierrot. 
Be still . . . you spangled, spying thing! 
Look, she is suffering. 

He raises her very gently in his arms. 
Her eyes unclose and search his 
adoring ones, then she smiles a 
very satisfied, cat-a-cornered smile. 
Pierrot kneels by her, as she leans 
back lazily, fondling her hands. 
She does not respond at all. 
[39] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Sweet . . . sweet! 

Lift me from kneeling at your feet, 

Laugh in my eyes . . . give me your mouth 

For my hps are faint with drouth. 

To Harlequin. 

Fill in the grave . . . and softly go from 

sight. 
She shall not die to-night, 
But this moonrise 

Shall shine upon a garden of delight. 
Oh, see how every blossom lies. 
Open and fragrant for our happiness . . g 
Dear, dear child. 
Lay your cool fingers in caress 
Upon my mouth. Pierrot is reconciled! 

Pause for a moment, zvhile Columbine 
makes sure of what is in his eyes. 
Then she laughs, deliberately, un- 
twines his arms from about her 
waist, rises, looks down scornfidly 
at the wonder and adoration in his 
eyes, then, with utmost care and art 
begins to dance, with a most in- 

[40] 



BEHIND AWATTEAU PICTURE 

solenf step around him, snapping 
her fingers like castanets^ 

Columbine. 
Oh . . . oh . . . poor Pierrot, 
All in black 

Like a melancholy crow. . . . 
You must dress in rose and gold 
When you come a- wooing me, 
Paint your face that grows too old, 
Or you're not for me . , . la-la ! 

Pierrot. 
Columbine ! 

Columbine: 

Smiling in his face. 
Kill me if you can. 
Am I not too fair? 
Let your spangled man 
Kill me if he dare. 

With languor. 
In the moonlight Pierrot's aflame . . . 
The moon perchance or I perchance to blame . , ^ 

[41] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Pierrot will die unless I kinder grow. 
So kiss me . . . Pierrot. 

She stoops her face to his, her arms 

round his neck. He crushes her to 

him with a groan. 

Pierrot. 
Sweet . . . sweet! 

Columhine. 
She holds her cheek close to his. 
You will not kill me now? 
Kiss me again ... 
You cannot still me now. 
Am I safe again ? 

He lets his arms fall loosely from her/- 
his eyes stare at her dully, as if he 
did not understand. She rises and 
stands over him, sparkling, tri- 
umphant. 
So, Pierrot, 
Too beautiful, too beautiful to die? 

Joyously. 
Love hangs too high for Death to gather in, 
Love lives eternally, sweeter than sin, 

[42] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Love kisses once and goes laughing on her way, 
Love leaves the lips she knows for new lips every 

day, 
Love feeds on fresh desire, ever to warm her, 
Lovers fade . . . but love can never tire . . . 
Death cannot harm her. 

And goes off again in her shameless, 
tiptoe dance round Pierrot, who 
stares blindly in front of him. 
So . . . so . . . Master Pierrot, 
Kiss me once and , . . let me go. 
You have given me your pardon. 
You shall watch me dance o' nights. 
Joyous all across your garden. 
Seeking new delights. 

You shall see me luring lovers old and lovers new. 
If your passion is enduring . . . 
Passion pity you ! 

He rises as if horror-struck to an- 
szver her as she again sings her 
song in praise of love. 
Love hangs too high 
For Death to gather in, 
Love lives eternally 
Sweeter than sin ; 

[43] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Love feeds on fresh desire 

Ever to warm her, 

Lovers fade but Love can never tire, 

Death cannot harm her. 

Pierrot. 

Love is too kind 

Ever to blame me, 

Love has no cruel mind 

Always to shame me ; 

If this be Love in truth . w » 

Not her betrayer ! 

Passion dies, but Love is very youth . . ,; 

Death cannot slay her. 

At the end Columbine laughs and ap- 
proaches too fondly one of the 
boyish pages. Pierrot passes his 
hand across his eyes as if waking 
from a bad dream, and never taking 
his eyes off her, motions to Harle- 
quin. 

Harlequin! . . . 

She is not Love, 

So light Love could not grow 

My heart is dead from her. 
[44] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Cohtmbine. 
Oh, poor Pierrot ! 

Pierrot. 

In the same low, die-away voice. 
The shadows whisper and the moon is still, 
None lifts a voice for her. . . , 

Loudly. 
Harlequin ... do your will. 

Harlequin. 
Bind her. The grave is ready. 

The Negroes move forward. Colum- 
bine suddenly awakes to her danger, 
shrieks, tries to hide among the 
page-boys but they push her away. 
She turns at last to Pierrot, confi- 
'dent, but he has wandered over to 
the steps and stands with an elbow 
on the balustrade, picking at his 
little guitar, sunk in apathy. 

Columbine. 
Pierrot . ■, .. Pierrot! 
[45] 



BEHIND AWATTEAU PICTURE 

Harlequin. 

Terribly. 

Bind her. 

And lay her there. 

Just as the Negroes are about to seize 
her, she shrieks again. From the 
rose-hedge the Lady runs to her 
side and enfolds her. Before her 
appear the two men with drawn 
swords. 

Lady. 
Here are swords, Columbine. 
They will not dare. 

The Negroes recoil, Harlequin throws out his 
hands fiercely. 

Harlequin. 

Foes in the garden ! . . . 

Slay . . . slay! 

The Negroes advance with drawn 
scimeters, but suddenly Pierrot 
strikes a peremptory chord on his 
guitar and the swords drop. Pier- 
rot comes down the steps and 
crosses to the strangers, and looks 
them over rather wearily, incurious. 

[46] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Pierrot. 
Why do you come here . . . 
Is it dull outside? 

This is a dull and weary garden here. 
From year to silent year 
None comes inside. 

Who told you stories of the sad Pierrot ? 
Now you have seen me . . . go. 

Harlequin. 

Open the gate, fat friend, and drive them hence. 

Then you and I, fat friend. 

Shall settle your recompense. 

The Fat Pierrot melts visibly with 
terror. The Negroes advance again 
to take Columbine who, safe among 
the swords, smiles unendurably at 
Harlequin. The Lady waves the 
Negroes back. 

Lady. 
Nay . . . you shall not ! 
Think you to do your wicked will 
Here in this deadly spot 
Where all is chill . . . 
And humankind forgot ? 

[47] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Columbine goes with us . :, t .we are not 

afraid. 
You shall not kill the maid. 

Marqtiis.\ 
Not while a sword is mine 
To guard Columbine. 

Pierrot looks from Columbine, full of 
indecent triumph, to the earnest 
three and smiles, very gently and 
sadly. But Harlequin does not take 
it so calmly. 

Harlequin. 
So soon ? Has she bewitched you too ? 
She is a cold and heartless thing 
For all her loveliness, 
Her pretty wantoning . . . 
She holds men*s hearts in sick duress, 
You know not what you do ! 

Poet. 
She is a lovely thing in evil stead, 
Too lovely to lie dead 
Under this strange moonshine. . ? « 

[48] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Nay, she shall lift her sunny head 

Far from these walls . . . and laugh ! 

Harlequin. 
Grimly. 

Her lips like wine 

Make drunken those who quaff. 

Give her to us to kill. 

Pierrot. 
Breaking his absent silence at last. 
The moon is silent ever . . . gives no sign. 
These men are young and foolish in their youth. 
Think ye she will have ruth 
Upon them . . . Columbine? 
Loose her ... let her have her will. 

Upon his sign the Negroes retire and 
the Fat Pierrot smiling throws aside 
the gate. Then Pierrot retires to 
the steps, right, to watch the sport. 
Harlequin glowers by the grave. 
Columbine is most effusive, but 
makes no move to go, and one can 
see from her smile and the zvay 
she eyes the men that she intends 
to have a good time. The men 
[49] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

warm rapidly to her. The Lady, 
at first kind and protecting, as 
the scene progresses grows doubt- 
fid, distrustfid, hostile, and finally 
afraid of Columbine. 

Columbine. 
O gallant hearts, friends mine. 
Columbine loves you ! . . . 

Lady. 
See, the gate is wide ! 
Let us go quickly. 

Columbine. 
No, no . . . shall we not bide 
A little, little while 

And mock this melancholy thing in black, 
Who wears such sorry smile? 
Shall we not dance and laugh upon his lack, 
Dance, dance, . . . and smile? 
Pierrot. 
As Columbine coquets outrageously, ballet- 
fashion. 
O moon, behold, the play begins apace ! 
Shine, moon . . . sound lutes. . . . 
Now that lovely face, 

[50] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

That mouth whose speech is sweet as silver flutes, 
Shall breathe a madness in this quiet place. . o . 
Laugh, lutes and viols, 
Dance, dear sorcery! 

Lady. 
Uneasily. 

I am afraid. Let's go home . . . soon. 

Marquis. 
Not till we dance. Mistress, a boon ! 
Dance first with me. 

Poet. 
Nay, with me, sweet. 

Marquis. 
No, 'tis I have the lighter feet ! 

Poet. 
Dance with me. . . . Dance with me. . . ■, 

Marquis. 
Choose you the stronger. 

Poet. 
Pouf ! He will tire ... I can dance longer. 

[51] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Lady. 
Let us go home. . . . I am afraid. 

Columbine. 

Scornfully. 

Poor, frightened maid ! 
With a bright idea. 
Whom shall I dance with? 
Him I shall kiss. 
She pirouettes to the Marquis and kisses him 
lightly. 

Marquis. 
Madly. 

Kiss me again. 

Leaving, she kisses the Poet twice, watching 

the Marquis over her shoulder. 

Cohimh'me. 
Like this. . . . Like this? 
Pity should any one miss ! ... So this ! 
Whom shall I dance with . . . come, decide ! 

The Men. 
Me she kissed best. 
She dances with me . . . with me. . . . 

[52] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Columbine. 
To both. 
One only dances with me. 
Does your pride 
Suffer this braggart so to brawl? 
Dance with me quickly ... or not at all. 

Lady. 
Wildly. 

O evil of the world, 

Passion, whose other name is death ! 

Come away, come away. . . . 

Leave this dancing girl ... I am afraid. 

Poet. 
My lips are drunken with the kiss of her. 
My arms are aching for her body sweet. . . . 

Marquis. 
Yea, though deathwards go our feet. 
Yet I shall dance with her. 

Columbine. 
No one . . . save one . . . shall dance 

with me to-night. 
Choose, choose, my masters ! 
Suddenly the Marquis draws his sword angrily. 
[53] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Marquis. 
Lo, my right 

To choose her s . , flashes in my hand ! 
The Poet draws also. Pierrot's voice rings 
from the steps. 

Pierrot. 
Now, do you understand ? 
Lady, beware. . . . 

Lady. 
Flinging herself between the men. 
No, no. . . . You will not dare 
To fight, to perish for that painted thing ! 
Put up your swords. Will you kill me, too ? 
Have you no pity for my suffering ? . . . A-a-ah ! 
The Marquis has pushed her so 
violently to one side that she swoons 
on the bench, hiding her head. 
Columbine circles eagerly aroiind 
the tense men, clapping her hands. 

Columbine. 
How splendid . . . thus to woo 
With blades bright in the moon. 
Fight for me . . . while I dance. 
You shall have music while your swords glance. 
[54] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

She kisses each of them passionately. 
A kiss for you . . . for each of you. 
Who will live to love me yet 
After this bloody minuet? 

She springs away, clapping her hands. 
The lutanists strike up a rather 
stately minuet, Columbine swaying 
and gesturing in her place to the 
music, while the Marquis and the 
Poet take their stand. From the 
steps Pierrot sings softly in time to 
the music. 

Pierrot. 
'Tis a pretty dance they dance. 
Columbine ! 

Tis a quaint and pretty measure. 
See how brightly their blades glance, 
Columbine ! 
Dancing for your sorry pleasure. 

The Chinese, Negroes and lutanists take up 
the strain. 
See, the moon is glowing red, 
And the night holds her breath. 
Soon the earth shall be their bed . . , 
For these dance with Death ! 
[55] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

As the men salute. Columbine holds out her 
hand to Pierrot. 

Columbine. 
Sad Pierrot, let us dance, too ! 

Pierrot. 
Descending to her, taking her hand with a 
cold smile. 
Fitting that I should dance with you 
While men are dying ! . . . Sirs, engage. 

The lutes strike; the men cross swords 
and fight, while Columbine and 
Pierrot move through the minuet, — 
the attendants singing as before. 
This time it breaks off toward the 
end with a jangling chord as the 
Poet drives the Marquis through 
the heart and receives the other's 
blade near the same place. 

Marquis. 
Antoinette ! 
He dies. 

Lady. 
Love! 

She staggers to the body and falls. 
[56] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Columbine. 
Bends over Poet writhing on the grass, 
pointing to the other two carelessly. 
Dead! 
Now ... we can dance, I and you. 

Poet. 

Nay ... I shall dance no more. 

I, too, shall die. 

Yet fortunate, if you . . . sweetheart . , g 

are by. 
Pillow my fallen head upon your breast. . . 
Kiss me again . . . till I forget the rest. 
Remembering the best . . . 
That for sweet Love I die. 

But Pierrot, standing over him sorrowfully, 

shakes his head. 

Pierrot. 

Fair sir, lift up your eyes and see 
This is not Love. 

Love is a kind thing. Love is true . . . 
Love was not meant for you. 
But this false fair . . . this painted, rosy 
thing . . . 

tS7] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

This golden sham who . . , to your sorrow- 
ing .. . 
Kissed you with lips of dust, 
Quickened your blood to lust . . . 
So die you now ... as die you must . . . 
For Passion's cruelty. 



Poet. 
Feebly. 

Nay, it is Love . . . her face is close and 

dear. 

Love, are you here . . . are you here ? 

Your arms are warm, your breast 

Like a soft, sleepy nest. . . . 

Suddenly. 

I cannot see the moon now for the dark. 

Bend your dear face close and closer. Love, 

Kiss me again . . . 

Columbine . . . Columbine . . . Love? 
He dies. The lutes jangle into dis- 
cord again. Pierrot looks down for 
a time at the body. But Columbine 
disengages herself with a gesture of 
distaste; touches the body lightly 

[58] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

with her slipper, and walks away, 
swinging her hips, humming her 
earlier melody. 
Columbine. 
Oh ! Oh ! . . c See, Pierrot, 
Two pretty gentlemen 
Lying in a row, 
Each crying for the moon, 
Each wanting . . » mine. 
Oh, happy gentlemen. 
Poor Columbine ! 

Pierrot, 
With a terrible gesture. 
Be silent ! 

Columbine wanders right, and poses 
in an attitude of graceful dejection 
against the base of a marble. Pier- 
rot goes to the Lady and lifts her 
gently from her husband's body and 
supports her. 
Dear Lady, rise 
And do not sorrow so. . . . 
Look not upon me with such staring eyes. 
Once ... a long time past . . « I bade 
you go. 

[59] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

Lady^ 
Where may I go 
Now that I am . . . alone? 

Pierrot. 
Harlequin here shall lead you back to life, 
Safe . . . safe home. 
Harlequin ! lead her tenderly 
Home through the empty streets and still, 
Sing to her, magic her with song until 
She can forget all this fantastic past 
And sleep ... at last. 

Lady. 
Pointing, as her eyes jail on Columbine, 
bitterly. 
She lives . . . and so I shall not lay my curse 
On you and on this garden. 

Pierrot. 
Understanding, with a hopeless shrug of the 
shoulders. 
Nay, 'twere worse 

To leave her here with me than bury me 
Under the wall. . . . 

[6o] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

We two in this garden 

All the deadly years 

Must love and hate, with laughter and with tears, 

Dying, yet never free of life, but she 

Forever mine and ever . . . Columbine ! 

Lady. 
And you? It is my right to know. 

Pierrot. 
I ... am the Melancholy Pierrot 
Some call her Light-o-Love, false as breatK^j 
Some call me . . . Death. 

Lady. 
Shivering. 

Farewell ! Your smile is cold upon my heart. 

Pierrot. 
Harlequin ! 

Harlequin puts his arm around the 
drooping Lady and leads her slowly 
out of the gate. The lutes are 
sorrowfid. Pierrot looks about, 
stretching forth anguished hands. 
So depart 

All true and lovely life from this retreat ! 
[6i] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

In a monotone. 
How ugly those are . . . dead. Take up 

their feet 
And bury them ! 

The Negroes drag the bodies roughly across the 
grass and dump them into the open grave. 
Lock the gate, fat friend. ... No, you need 

not wait. 
Go ! . . . all of you. 

He flings his hands out in dismissal. 
The Fat Pierrot, who has been hid- 
ing behind the bushes, creeps out, 
locks the gate and scurries away, 
his legs bending under him. The 
Negroes shoidder their spades and 
mattocks and shuffle out. But the 
Chinese go as they came, singing 
slowly under their lanterns, the 
lutanists following, accompanying 
them, till both strumming and 
chanting die away, beyond on the 
right. 

Chinese. 
We are the Makers of Madness, 
We are the Makers of Moons, 
[62] 



BEHIND AWATTEAU PICTURE 

Like a rosy bubble floating, 

Like a poison, magic bubble, 

That men grow mad to look on . • ^ 

We are the Makers of Madness . . « 

Makers of Moons. 

Columbine turns away from the 
marble, looks keenly at Pierrot, but 
he meets her gaze with folded arms 
and wry smile; so she goes with 
dragging feet toward the gate. 

Columbine. 
Shaking the gate wildly. 
The gate is locked ! 
Let me out . . . out . a , out I 

Pierrot, 

Smiling coldly. 
To kill more men, no doubt. 
No, you bide here 

To comfort me with your red smiles, my dear. 
And when you long for amorous company, 
You may kiss . . . me. 

He turns his back on her and climbs 
up the steps along the wall, right 

[63] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

back. Presently he appears, sitting 
on the top of the wall, a thin black 
figure, with chin bent down on his 
knees, brooding. He is silhouetted 
sharply against the perfect golden 
disk of the moon. 
Below Columbine peers through the 
grille in the gate, calling to any 
chance passer-by. 

Columbine. 
Will no one hear me, 
Columbine singing, 
Poor, sweet Columbine? . », , 
I have love to give, 
Kisses and delight . . . 
Open, lads ... and let me live 
Free among you in the streets at night. 
Can you not hear me call 
Behind the wall ? 

Trying for her old careless, insolent manner. 
Love feeds on fresh desire 
Ever to warm her, 
Lovers fail but Love can never tire. 

She breaks down, sobbing, her body 
[64] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

writhing against the grille. On the 
top of the wall, Pierrot strikes a 
few mournful chords on his little 
guitar, and with face raised to the 
moon, sings the melody the Poet 
sang outside the wall. 

Pierrot. 
There is a garden where 
Love lies beneath the moon. 
Golden and rose and fair, 
Love ... in a swoon. 
Lads full of hardihood, 
Flee when you hear her call. 
Love bringeth nought of good 
Over Death's wall. 

In another, a minor key. 
O sorry hearts of dust ! 
Love sings a tawdry lie, 
Passion, her name, and Lust 
When you come nigh. . . . 
You whom she slayeth soon 
Love will not pardon, 
Love dwells beyond the moon . .: g 
Not in Death's garden. 

[65] 



BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 

During the last lines the moon and 
other lights die out. When they leap 
up again, we see the Watteau group 
posed motionless as at the opening, 
outside the wall. But . . . from 
over the wall, behind the picture, 
we hear the last bars of Pierrot's 
bitter little song. 



THE CURTAIN FALLS 



[66] 



